


It Takes One to Know One Kid, I Think You Got it Bad

by OkayKaylyn



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, M/M, Self Harm, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayKaylyn/pseuds/OkayKaylyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian had been gone for two months when Mickey started taking prescription anti-depressants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes One to Know One Kid, I Think You Got it Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Lua by Bright Eyes. I was triggered like woah while writing this fic, fair warning. The self harm in the fic is brought on by anxiety.

Ian had been gone for two months when Mickey started taking prescription anti-depressants.

No, not taking them, abusing them. They weren’t prescribed for him either. They were Mandy’s that she was prescribed after their mom died but she stopped taking them and they started piling up in the medicine cabinet. Mickey had found them after the wedding when he was looking for some sleeping pills for Lana. He had considered selling them at first, they were a pretty high dosage. But then Ian left and when Mickey realized he wasn’t coming back, at least not right away, he decided that he needed the pills more than the money.

He started out taking the recommended one pill a day with breakfast. It made his hands stop shaking whenever Mandy brought up Ian. But then Lip had stopped by, saying that no one had heard from Ian since before he left. When Mickey questioned Mandy about it, she admitted that she hadn’t heard from him either. No letters, text messages or anything.

That night Mickey took two pills washed down with vodka and didn’t wake up until noon the next day.

Pretty soon that two turned to four. And then six.

And then he made it into a game. Every morning he’d take one more than the day before. He wanted to see how many he could take without dying, or at least passing out. He was up to 15 when he really noticed a difference and stopped going any higher.

He was constantly tired and always lethargic. His mind was so cloudy he could barely get out of bed in the morning. And when he did get out of bed he dragged himself through the day just waiting to get back to bed. He didn’t hear anyone talking to him anymore. Couldn’t hear them through the fog in his brain. He was moody and restless, his skin feeling too tight. He was itchy but couldn’t scratch. When he tried to, Mandy found him on the bathroom floor with blood on his hands and skin under his nails, still desperately trying to dig into the skin below his elbows.

She cried as she rinsed the blood off of his hands and gently washed the deep scratches, already starting to scab. “Mickey, I’m scared” she whispered the next day when she saw the bruises that had bloomed around the injuries during the night. He tried to give her a reassuring smile but couldn’t remember how to pull the corners of his mouth up.

When Mickey scratched the scabs off, Mandy was just angry. “It’s going to scar now, you do realize that?” she berated him as she wrapped gauze around the wounds. Mickey shrugged, thinking of all the other scars on his body. His favorite being the gunshot wound in his thigh that Ian liked to grab during sex. The memory made him sick to his stomach and he had barely gotten the five extra pills down before he passed out on his bed.

15 pills was his limit. 20 pills was too many.

He woke up in the hospital with his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. Mandy was sitting next to his bed with big bags under her eyes. She was frowning. “You wouldn’t wake up, they had to pump your stomach” Mickey had figured as much, he felt the same as when he passed out from alcohol poisoning, they had pumped his stomach then too. “I threw out the pills and canceled my prescription.” Mandy crossed her arms and waited for Mickey to protest. But that would mean talking, and he hadn’t done that since Ian had left.

They let him out later that day, none of the doctors like having a Milkovich in their care for too long.

Mickey started buying the anti-depressants in back alleys and under the El. He wouldn’t take 20 again, he promised himself. He just liked the fog, liked not having to think. Not being able to.

But then Mandy came running into his room one day, all smiles and squealing. Mickey covered his ears, didn’t like the way her voice echoed in his mind. Mandy sat down on his bed and pulled his hands away from his ears. She lowered her voice but still talked quickly. What Mickey could make out was that Ian had finally mailed her. He was coming home.

When Ian first stopped by to see him, Mickey slammed the door in his face. Mandy had found him that night asleep on the bathroom floor. But that was becoming common. She woke him up enough to drag him to his room and get him in bed, “You’re going to have to face him eventually” she told him as she took the bottle of pills from his side table.

The next morning he fished his emergency bottle from under the floorboards and started counting. He had swallowed nine by the time he heard Mandy’s voice float in from the living room, along with Ian’s. Mickey swallowed the one in his mouth, 10, and walked out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, glaring at them. “Hey, come join us!” Ian invited, noticing him. Mickey never could say no to him. As soon as he sat down he was being asked “Where have you been hiding all day?” Apparently it was 4pm and Mickey had slept in.

"Don’t bother." Mandy advised "He doesn’t talk."

"What do you mean he doesn’t talk?" Ian asked, still staring at Mickey. As Mandy explained, Mickey fumed, wanting to jump up and say ‘ _he _is right fucking here.’ but when tried he couldn’t get his mouth to work.__

Ian started coming over everyday trying to get Mickey to talk. He’d tell him about his war buddies, how awful the food was, everything Mickey didn’t want to hear. But when he tried to tell Ian to shut up he felt like his mouth was sealed with glue. He was finally able to open his mouth when Ian grabbed onto his arm. “The fuck?” Mickey yelled, yanking his arm from Ian’s hand. The words felt funny coming out of his mouth.

But Ian didn’t comment on the fact that Mickey had finally spoken. His brow was furrowed as he stared at Mickey’s arm. “What happened?” He asked quietly, slowly reaching out to run his fingers along the scarred over scratch marks.

Mickey didn’t jerk away this time. But he didn’t want to tell Ian what happened either “What, you didn’t get any scars in the war?” He tried to joke.

The joke fell flat when Ian frowned “You weren’t in the war, Mickey” and Mickey had to bite his tongue. He was in a war. Just not the one Ian was in.

Ian left shortly after that, when he realized Mickey wasn’t going to say anything else. That night Mickey was itchier than ever. After Mandy’s freak out he had started scratching at his bed or his wall, anywhere that wasn’t him. But he was on fire and his skin needed to be soothed. He had one hand scratching at his collar bone and the other clawing at his hip when his door opened.

"Mickey…" Ian’s voice was soft but also sad. Mickey had stopped scratching, but he hadn’t moved his hands. "Mickey" Ian said again as he moved closer to Mickey’s bed. Mickey expected him to sit on his bed and try to get him to talk. Instead he walked past Mickey’s bed and into the bathroom. He came back with a damp washcloth to clean Mickey up. "I’m sorry" He murmured against Mickey’s neck as he moved them both down on the bed. He didn’t say anything else that night.

Mickey was down to five pills a day when they finally had sex. The scabs on his collar bone and hip had healed over, no scars. But Ian was still very gentle when his lips passed over those areas. When Ian finally fucked him, he had one hand clasped around the scratch scars and the other grasping the bullet scar on Mickey’s thigh.

The next morning Ian found the bottle of pills that had rolled under the bed. Mickey’s heart stopped when Ian picked it up with a frown on his face. But he didn’t throw the pills away like Mickey had feared. Ian sighed and set the bottle of pills down on the bedside table. What Mickey definitely didn’t expect was Ian burying his face in his neck and breathing “I love you” against his skin over and over again.

He didn’t tell Mickey to stop taking the pills. But he did ask him why. Mickey shrugged, he hadn’t talked since Ian had found the scars so Ian didn’t think anything of it. But really Mickey couldn’t remember his reasons for taking them. None of them applied anymore.

Ian had been back for two months when Mickey stopped taking prescription anti-depressants.


End file.
